


coffee’s for closers

by milkovichh



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, First Meetings, Flirting, Fluff, M/M, alternate first meeting, barista!Mickey, cheesy pick up lines, coffee shop AU, honestly theyre terrible, idk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-10 15:28:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11129616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milkovichh/pseuds/milkovichh
Summary: “ Did ‘Ian’ always flirt with baristas in shitty mainstream coffee shops, or was this just Mickey’s never-ending bad luck? ”





	coffee’s for closers

For many years, the name of Milkovich had been known and feared in the Southside. Starting from great-grandpa Milkovich himself, down to his son, his son’s son, and the group of sons after that, also counting in Mandy, who definitely deserved recognition for living up to the name, too. The family were known for being criminals, thugs, pimps, and terrifying. The Milkovich’s dealt, sold and bought drugs on the daily, never forgot a single deal once it was made, beat people to pulp for looking at them wrongly, robbed from poor corner stores and nobody did shit about it since their reputation held strong. Once one of them was locked up, it was never a relief — just a set number of days until they got out and came after you.

  No Milkovich was a pussy, that’s for sure. From the very few, sex-driven brain cells of Iggy and Colin, to the femininity of Mandy, to the homosexuality in Mickey; they were all still threatening and mocking them for any of these qualities was a mistake few made, for good reason. They were all known for many things, and their Southside pride was one of them. They hated the changes being made to their shitty community that they had worked hard to ruin, and they saw no need for new, big, expensive buildings in place of the perfectly fine old ones — abandoned or not, they all had their uses. So, it was a wonder of how Mickey Milkovich was working in a newly-built Starbucks.

  He hated it, sure, but the fact was that he got paid and had enough smoke breaks to keep him running. He had gotten the job when he was a teen, except when he got it, it was just a shitty coffee shop on the corner infested with rats, on probation, and once it got turned into a Starbucks, he was half-way to the door. The only reason he stayed was the offer of more money, and who would he be to turn down a job and high pay all in one? The training sucked; fancy-ass machine and about a million different drink combinations to remember alongside the stupid names given to them. The worst of all? Pricks who had too much money waltzing in, hipster glasses and denim jackets, beanies in summer, ordering very specific things with their eyes glued to the screen and then _complaining_ afterwards. Shit, after that started, Mickey had demanded either a raise or more smoke breaks. 

  All of this was how Mickey was dressed in green behind a pristine counter on a Thursday morning, mouth set into his usual frown, making overpriced drinks for whichever asshole came in. Mickey was one of the two working today, since the boss saw himself too good for Southside apparently, Jessica — maybe Rebecca, or Stacy, some stupid name as fake as all her makeup — was off with AIDs or whatever, and Johnathan was off for family business (probably boning Jessica-Rebecca-Stacy). The other person working was a blond girl with long, red fingernails that tapped whenever she touched anything. Needless to say, Mickey wasn’t in the brightest of moods that morning.

  The day was dragging, even by ten. After nine, the number of customers ceased, since most of them had been on their way to work, and the only consistent one was Mandy, who sat in the corner with her stolen laptop, mooching off the free refills that Mickey wasn’t allowed to give her but did anyway. Mandy fit right into the Starbucks with her ldyed hair, and her long eyelashes, nose ring, and fucking iPhone that was probably also stolen. Mickey didn’t quite fit in so well, even with uniform, since he kept up his dirty looks, scowl and did nothing to cover his tattoos; he had no filter on his swearing, and never disguised his disgust or eyerolls for his customers. He liked the looks of horror he got from preppy people once they saw him, almost nervous to give him their name so he could write it on the cup; it almost made working here a little better. 

  At half past ten, he was just returning from his smoke break, tying his apron back on, straight to the machine to prepare Mandy’s next cup, knowing she was smiling, all smug, in the corner. A small cough had him looking up, noticing a tall redhead stood, waiting. The guy looked a little different to the people they normally got — built, a little rougher, more like he was from around here, and more casual clothing than the smart-casual Mickey saw daily, hot. Normally Mickey didn’t care that he wasn’t getting laid loads; he had more to life than a boyfriend, anyway. Besides, he never found any decent-looking, gay, Southside guys worth his time of day, and doubted any other guy would be into him. But shit, this redhead already made his morning semi-decent just by looking at him with intense green eyes.

  Finishing the cup he was already making, with a lifted brow to the new customer to show he knew he was there, Mickey called his sister’s name, flipping her off at the wink she gave him as she pointed discreetly at the tall dude while walking away. He rolled his eyes, moving to the counter to do his damn job. “Ay?”

  The informality of his singular word seemed to catch the guy off guard — well, either way, he seemed to be in his own world, so whatever Mickey said would probably make him jump — and the thug knew that he should be saying ‘what can I get you?’ with a forced smile, all friendly and basic, but he had never once in his life done polite servicing, and wasn’t gonna start. It was bad enough he had a mainstream barista job. “What?”

  His voice was cute, confused, even if he did look confident and hot outwardly. Mickey rolled his eyes. “What d’you want?”

  “Vanilla Latte, iced, sugar-free and with soy milk.”

  “Anything else?” he was obliged to ask, far too used to these orders by now. When he started, he was confused as to why people wanted such complex shit, when black coffee was perfectly fuckin’ fine, thank you very much, but then he realised that this was a coffee shop for a reason. If they wanted plain coffee, they’d stay at home, much like he wished he could. 

  The redhead leaned forward a little, dropping his voice with a faint pink to his cheeks. “Your number would be great, too.”

  Raising a brow comically, Mickey was torn between one of two reactions. He could smirk and be pleased that at last a hot guy was mildly into him (with the downfall of the endless teasing he’d get from Mandy) or he could be the known grouch he was and scowl, maybe even make a slip up in the dude’s iced vanilla latte with no sugar and soy milk for insinuating that he was gay. It took a second to consider, in which the redhead bit his lip for a reaction, and Mickey decided that he didn’t come out and get beat to shit by his dad to be aggressive to hot guys who wanted his number, even if the line said hot guy used was cheesy and lame. 

  It wasn’t too rare that Micky got hit on. Except, it was always creepy old guys leaning in and telling him that they wanted ‘ _extra_ sugar, baby’ with their coffee (to which Mickey would put an obcene amount in, hoping it’d give the perverts a fucking heart attack and charge them extra for it) or younger, giggling girls who either shyly slipped their numbers with their tip or quite blatantly asked if he was just as brutal in bed. In all situations, he really felt for the poor baristas he used to look down on, who had to put up with this shit every day.

  “That so?” he spoke, one hand reaching for a cup and the other grabbing a sharpie. When he got a nod and a quiet hum, he chuckled to himself. “What’s your name?”

  “Ian,” the guy spoke, eyes bright as he worked out that there was a slim chance Mickey could be gay, if the lack of beating he got was anything to go by. “I gotta say I like yours much better, _Mickey_.” He winked, and the brunet panicked before he realised that his name was written sloppily over his nametag, to which he rolled his eyes once more with a slight smirk, moving away from the lanky redhead to make his damn drink, which didn’t seem to stop the guy from openly leaning on the counter to continue. “When d’you get off?”

  Did ‘Ian’ always flirt with baristas in shitty mainstream coffee shops, or was this just Mickey’s never-ending bad luck? Well, sort of bad luck, since he didn’t actually find himself minding that much as he began to fill the cup. “That the best you can do?”

  Ian blinked, then grinned. “Well, no ... but if you weren’t so fucking gorgeous, I wouldn’t have forgotten my original pick-up line.”

  Mickey laughed, looking down with a very faint blush. Used to being hit on, yes, but nobody had so confidentially called him gorgeous before. He knew he wasn’t a fucking Adonis, decent at most, and looked unapproachable in his uniform with a scowl and tough features. He just hoped that nobody else in the shop was listening — few as there were, scattered about with their drinks and chattering or scrolling social media, he knew people who went to places like Starbucks tended to be nosy and enjoyed listening in on other people’s lives. 

  “Yeah? You ain’t bad yourself, _Ian_.”

  “That mean I get your number?” Ian asked hopefully, smirking and leaning casually on the counter, though his eyes shined bright and happy. It was rather adorable, really; that’s if Mickey found people adorable. 

  Snorting, Mickey began pouring the soy milk into the cup. “I look like a cheap date to you? Try harder.”

  “Really?” Ian asked, not at all put off, earning a confirming hum and challenging look from Mickey. “You do owe me a date, though.”

  “Make’s you think that?”

  “You stole something from me.” Though it should’ve been obvious, Mickey backtracked quickly, wondering if he had stolen anything from the dude, and if so when and how did he get caught. The short laugh Ian gave brought him back. “My heart. Jesus, you think I’d hit on you if you actually stole somethin’ of mine?”

  Mickey shrugged, grinning as he put a lid on top of the drink, “maybe. Though with your obviously spectacular pick-up lines, I’m surprised you haven’t woo’d someone else.”

  Ian pouted adorably, taking the drink as it was handed to him with a smile. “How much?”

  Mickey thought about it, then chanced. “A date.”

  Ian’s grin could have had the world orbiting it, it was so fuckin’ bright. Mickey really liked it, though, and despised his brain for wanting to see it again and again. “That can be done. D’you believe in love at first sight, though? Or should I be coming back again?”

  “Fucking hell,” Mickey shook his head fondly with a smile, which Ian, unbeknownst to him, was already absolutely in love with. The guy didn’t seem the type to flirt often, or put up with it for that matter, so he was feeling pretty good about how well this had gone. “Get outta here, I got other shit to do. Like plan our date.”

  “I didn’t get your number.”

  “S’on your cup,” the barista grinned as Ian looked down, seeing his name with a number written under it. The thing that wiped his grin was Ian leaning quickly over the counter to kiss his cheek, leaving an odd lingering feeling on the blushing pale skin. It was sweet, something which Mickey didn’t get a lot of, despite working here. He looked down, busying himself with nothing at all, to hide the deep pink painted on his cheeks, which he knew would contrast his asshole persona and dark hair. 

  “Hey, Mick?” he looked up at Ian, who was taking a couple steps back, clearly ready to leave. “I like you a latte.”

**Author's Note:**

> the result of being so stumped for ideas but really wanting to write


End file.
